CHAPTER 210: CHAPTER 211: THE COUNCIL

The light had faded.

The night had returned—but not as it once was. It was quieter. Not peace, not silence. Aftermath.

Ash danced on the wind like burnt prayers. Blood mixed with steam upon the dirt, a battlefield turned crucible. Every soldier left standing dared not breathe. Even the dying halted their groans, waiting to see if the world would crack again.

And from above—Atlas descended.

He did not fall. He floated

Limbs relaxed. Shoulders light. Like a god returning from judgment.

His voice was neither shouted nor whispered, but it carried across the ruins as if the stars themselves repeated it.

"It’s over."

A hush followed—so deep, even memories stopped replaying.

His boots touched the ground with a finality that made the soil flinch. The mana coiled at his feet, hissing through cracks in the earth. A prince no longer. A madman no longer. Whatever he was—’he was now the axis the war spun around.’

Until—

A cry.

A flick of silver.

A Prime broke formation.

The Second Prime. She who was said to have once slain a sea dragon with her bare hands.

She moved before thought caught up—her spear a comet of wrath and purpose. Forged of obsidian, drenched in magic, her arm launched it like judgment itself. The sky cracked as it sailed toward Atlas’ heart.

But—

It did not pierce him.

It didn’t even touch him.

It stopped. Mid-air. Not with resistance. But like it had realized its mistake.

It bent, like kneeling. Then dropped to the dust with a pathetic clatter.

Atlas didn’t blink.

A breath passed.

Another.

Then his fingers rose.

And so did the prime.

Like Eli before her, her body jolted upward—arms limp, legs kicking. Her armor rattled, but the noise was swallowed by the air turning thick, metallic. Sulfur surged again, that burning scent of unnatural power and ruptured divinity.

Her throat was in his hand now.

Not her soul. Not her pride.

Her throat.

He didn’t look at her. He wasn’t punishing. He was Clensing.

And then—

A squeeze.

The wet sound was wrong.

Her neck collapsed. Squeezed into separation. Until Atlas’s hold became a grip, squashing through her throat, her pipe and her bones, plunged into atlas’s fist.

Like pulp.

Her head fell before the body knew it had died. Arterial spray arced in a beautiful, grotesque fan. For a heartbeat, the head hovered midair, lips parted in shock.

Then it dropped.

And the body followed.

The Second Prime. The immortal, they called her. Reduced to a ruin of blood and armor.

Atlas didn’t even look away.

His voice remained calm. Too calm.

"I’ll do the same to her....." he said.

Elizabeth hovered still in the air, suspended like a child’s broken toy. Her fingers curled around the invisible force choking her. The Empress of the Empire—squirming, scratching at air. Her hands clawed at his wrist, her breath a whistle, her legs kicking into void.

Her eyes—silver and ancient—now only held fear.

Her lips trembled.

But only one sound came.

"...Atlas..."

His hand twitched.

Her body spasmed in reply.

"...Don’t..." she whispered.

"...I already did," he replied, his tone cold, final.

Tears welled.

Not from pain. Not from death.

From knowing.

From recognizing the face of the man she once called lover—now made in the shape of something else. Something untouched by guilt. Unmoved by tears.

Atlas stared at her.

Her crown was gone. Her armor cracked. Her pride had burned with the camp.

And yet—

Her tears.

They still clawed at something human in him.

Just for a breath.

A blink.

Then—

A sound.

Wind tore from above.

Shadow eclipsed the moon.

And from the clouds—descended a creature vast enough to blot vision.

A skybeast. One of the ancients. Wings wider than castles. Teeth longer than spears. It landed with such force the ground screamed. And upon its back—men.

Armored. Robed. Glowing with mana.

The Seven Kings.

And at their front—

Henry.

His crimson cape trailed behind him, no longer a king, but something wiser—weathered. Marked by the same sins Atlas now carried. The same rage. The same power. But older.

Aurora looked at him with steep eyes.

’.....here I was thinking, what the fuck were you up to...Henry you sly fuck.’ she thought with a grin.

He stepped off the beast.

The crowd parted without command.

Atlas did not turn. But his hand stopped squeezing.

Elizabeth wheezed.

Henry raised his hand.

No sword.

No threat.

Only words.

"...Yes," Henry said, his voice booming with raw, practiced authority. "You ended it... just like I once did."

His eyes narrowed.

"But be careful."

The air tightened.

"In those days—when I burned cities for justice, when I carved borders with fire—I thought it was victory." He walked forward. Slowly. "But in truth, it was waste. And I regret it."

Atlas looked at him now. Truly.

His eyes—like two small stars—glowed, pulsed, no longer ruled by blood or law.

"...What would you have me do, then, Father?" Atlas asked. "Forgive her? Rebuild what she helped destroy? Let the Empire regroup and retaliate in twenty years? You came too late to weigh your words."

Henry paused.

"...Yes... I came late. But the timing couldn’t be better. The moment I heard of the so-called aircrafts, and saw my legion sick to the core... I had only one choice," Henry said, his voice softer now—accepting his absence in a way.

"...Hide and cower? I see you, Father. The real you. You are neither weary nor old." Atlas stepped closer. His tone hardened. "So I’ll say this again. You have no right—even if you wear that crown. I hold the spear. I’ve held it long enough to voice my own judgment, and my judgment is this: her death."

The word dropped like a blade.

Henry said nothing. He was stunned. The man before him was no longer the boy he once knew. The Mad Prince, they called him—and Henry had treated him as such.

"...You’ve really changed... Atlas, you truly have," Henry whispered, seeing the coldness in his son’s eyes. But Henry only smiled.

"......Take her. Make her yours," Henry casually muttered.

Atlas’s brow shifted. A silence lingered.

Henry continued.

"Make her your concubine. Take the Empire. Rule it."

Elizabeth choked on air. Her body trembled.

Atlas didn’t speak.

Because in his silence—he considered it.

He felt her in his grasp—how fragile she’d become. How once, she had stood taller than any throne, and now couldn’t lift her own breath.

He thought of before. Of the Dark Continent. Of her holding his hand when he was wounded. Of laughter in secret caves. Of betrayal that carved holes no medicine could ever stitch.

He thought of all the roads war could take.

He thought of the price.

A whisper brushed his memory.

"To rule the flame, you must sit inside it," he said—repeating the same words Henry had once told him.

Atlas closed his eyes.

And lowered her.

Elizabeth gasped, coughing violently, her body collapsing to the dirt. Her arms wrapped around herself—not from cold, but from humiliation.

She didn’t speak.

Not because she couldn’t—but because nothing she said would matter anymore.

Atlas turned to Henry.

"...And then what?" he asked. "If I take her. If I take the Empire. What comes next? Will the people accept that? Will the kingdoms sleep peacefully knowing I sit the throne?"

Henry smiled. So did the kings behind him.

"...They’ll sleep because they’re afraid," Caesar said.

"Like I am afraid now," an old man added, his head crowned by his own kingdom.

A pause.

"And because power obeys order. And you, Atlas, son of Henry... are now order," said another—his robes pristine, untouched by ash. The one they called The Pope.

The kings behind Henry nodded. Slowly. One by one. Even the High Mage among them watched Atlas—with awe and dread.

And Atlas?

He stood still. As he knew what his dear old father was planning. What he always did, what he always does.

He looked at Elizabeth—curled on the battlefield, her knees buried in ash and blood.

He remembered what she had once said to him:

"You were always meant for greatness. I know it. It’s written in your bones—I feel it."

And he had replied:

"Then show me how."

She had failed to.

So now—he would show her.

He turned, walked past her broken form, and passed her gently to Merlin and Aurora.

And he spoke:

"Then Show me How... Father. My kings and queens..."

Not shouted.

Not growled.

Declared.

And in that moment, the world shifted.

The night would be remembered—

Not because of magic.

Not because of war.

But because history would mark this night as the beginning of a new era.

An era forged by the first High Human.

The era of Genesis.